


Clockwork

by chocolatcoffee, StrangerInAStrangeWorld



Series: Dual Pendulums [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Gen, connected to Dual Pendulums in case anyone was wondering, the promised sidestories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5405156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatcoffee/pseuds/chocolatcoffee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangerInAStrangeWorld/pseuds/StrangerInAStrangeWorld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the pendulums swing, gears turn behind the scenes. A collection of the things Dual Pendulums protagonist Nariko can't or won't see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gang's All Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions. What do your elf eyes see, Nariko? What do others see in them?

How troublesome. After all that work, after having to stay in that little inn overnight because Kohaku couldn't find some nicer accommodations in the end, and my roommate wasn't even here? Well, it left me some time to unpack and think. Father always said that the strength of the Fujikage lay in being able to calmly contemplate things while other clans raced on ahead. It helped to have noble blood coursing through my veins, of course.

I knelt to unlatch my trunk. With luck nothing had gotten too rumpled. It wouldn't do to appear less than prepared. What if my roommate was a Kuchiki? Of course, the Kuchiki would never grace someone with my blood, but what if? I hugged a juban to my chest, grinning. The world was all mine now, a treasure box that only a Shinigami could unlock. The person measuring my power hadn't been as impressed, but I could do better. I knew it. I'd just been trying to be tasteful, not overwhelming. Not like whoever'd unleashed a hurricane and knocked someone out. I wrinkled my nose and began refolding kimono.  _That_ had been appalling. Almost as bad as the blaze that'd come later, the scorching heat and blinding purity. But the sun-pressure had been... humbler. Less wild and more didn't-know-his-own strength.

I frowned, standing and smoothing my skirt. It had felt masculine, at least. If the gods kept up their blessings, he'd be cute and from a nice clan Father would approve of. Now, where had my brush and inkstone gotten to? The room was so cramped it should've been easy to find them, but the porters had been sloppy. I'd have to complain. Politely, of course, but it wouldn't do to let servants get lazy.

Oh, I'd stuck them in the bag.  _Silly Shinju,_ Mother's voice said in the tone that meant I was an idiot. I got to work setting everything else out. When it'd all been done, everything arranged auspiciously and neatly just in case I did get a Kuchiki, I stood back to survey my work. Did everything say I was from a good family that'd taught me to be a woman who met all the standards of Soul Society? _  
_

Yes, of course it did. I was a noble lady, born and bred for this. I beamed at the neat stacks of uniforms on our futons. This year couldn't go wrong.

Now, how about my roommate's things? It'd be good to curry favor with them now. I began ordering her things into tidy piles. Juban here, kanzashi there... what about this scroll? Where did I put that? I unrolled it a little, only to see gibberish. I tilted my head, trying to figure out which way the characters went, or which ones they were, but none of it rang a bell. A few crossed-out kanji were in place, but all the rest was foreign. Well, no use prying just yet. I rolled it back up and set it back with the brush case. A cipher, probably. My stomach sank. The gods' blessings had probably run out. I'd have a Shihouin-aligned clan member to deal with.

Wham!

I jumped as the door flew open, heart in my throat. Who- what- Oh. Ohh. A girl stomped in, summer storm lashing around her. Her head, tilted down, snapped towards me, half-covered in insipid ash-blonde hair.

My manners! Even with this barbarian, I had to present a good image. I pasted on a smile, rising. "Oh! I thought you'd get here just a little bit later than this, sorry," I said, inclining my head. "I'm Fujikage Shinju."  _And with your hair like that and your face all red, I can't tell who on earth you're supposed to be._ "Nice to meet you?" There. I'd done my part and shielded myself from her wrath with all the right social conventions. Unwarranted apology, name-offering, pleasantry. All perfectly arranged.

Now to see what she did.

The girl stood up straight, brushing hanks of that faded hair to the side. "Hirako Nariko," she said, shedding tension as she looked me up and down. She smiled, piano teeth and glass shard eyes confirming it. Even if she looked more like a shadow of a Hirako than the ones I'd seen, golden skin faded to tan, golden hair faded to smoke, body pulled in close and tight almost like a proper noble. Only the sharp eyes and sharp face matched, despite the former being brilliant hazel. "Did you organize my stuff?"

I nodded, tucking the hair that fell loose with the motion back behind my ear. "I didn't have much to do," I said, grasping for a way to soften infamous Hirako obstinacy into legendary Hirako friendliness. Since clearly she lacked the typical social graces, or just didn't realize she looked ready to take my head off. "Um, if you want I could help you unpack. Unless you want to cool off a little bit and then do it; I could use the time to change into my uniform." I gestured at my beautifully folded uniform, willing her to notice and compliment the elegance.

She didn't, following my finger with a bland look. "Cool off?" Nariko crossed the room, dropping to her knees in front of the trunk and beginning to unload the remaining materials. I watched the scroll disappear up her sleeve. She stood and began to hang her clothes in the wardrobe with surprising tenderness. "It's not as hot as yesterday, you know."

What was she on about? I blinked, not even having to feign confusion. "Huh?" Maybe she  _was_ oblivious. A second or third daughter, maybe, not trained to be the face of her clan. "I just thought, you know, since you seem kinda upset..." I trailed off, folding my hands to keep from writing out the implication for her.

Her hands froze above a clematis-patterned obi. She half-turned, face slackening before a sheepish smile bloomed. "Don't worry about it. I blew up at my mom earlier."

Oh. So that was the sort of person I'd been saddled with. Disrespectful, unable to read the air, angry...  _Please, Kannon, give her some redeeming qualities._ I prayed she didn't notice the way my eyes flew to heaven. "Oh! Oh, good. Well, not good, but I thought you might've wanted a different roommate."  _I prayed you did._ I held up the red shitagi I'd been folding and unfolding, desperate to get on something she might like. "I wonder where they get this fabric. It doesn't feel like anything I've handled."

And finally, finally my efforts paid off. Nariko tilted her head, clearly putting some thought into the answer as she tended to finery for the times uniforms weren't required. "Color's kinda familiar," she said, voice slowing now, slow and deliberate. "I think that might be a Hirako dye."

I breathed a sigh of relief as I began to undress, careful not to be flashy. You never knew if someone was one of those... lewd women. But her eyes remained trained on the delicate kanzashi boxes, so I continued. "Really? I forgot that your clan works with dyes too." And it was true, a little warmth suffusing me at the commonality. At least we could talk shop. "Did you hear about a mistake with the Lady Kira's juunihitoe? The hitoe was too blue, so we had to switch it for a greener version at the last minute." It'd cost a pretty penny, too, but we'd done it. And she'd never known, so the blue cloth had been neatly repurposed with no one the wiser. Nobility, stagnant? Hardly. We knew what we were doing.

As words began to spill out of Nariko, hesitant in the way of someone trying to pare a lot of knowledge down to the essentials, I let myself relax. It had been a stressful day, I reasoned. Maybe she was overwhelmed. That had to be it. Not respectful of her family, and that was unforgivable, but I could work on her. A delicate raindrop could wear away the roughest mountain.

* * *

 

_From the journal of Aizen Sousuke_

Water's day, Fumizuki. My name is Aizen Sousuke. I attend the Shinigami Academy now. I have no mother. I have no father. I will blend in and I will have no friends.

I met a girl today. I think she was an enemy, or maybe half. She looked like the enemy living- no, the boy living with me. They aren't my enemies anymore.

_(Here jagged scribbles mark the page until a torn-out section is reached. We come to a new page.)_

Anyway, she was pretty. Not pretty like the dancing girls, or the stars, or blood on snow, pretty in a sneak-up-on-you way. Not ambushing! She was nice. Straightforward. She acted like she wanted to help, but it was a lie. We-  _I_ want to like her. But I can't trust her. None of them can be trusted, until I get it done.

She laughed when she first met me. It wasn't a pretty laugh, or a nice laugh. But she meant it, not like the dancing girls either. Her face was her face, her eyes were her eyes. She smelled good, too. The old rain and new wind made it easy to tell. And she didn't notice that I smelled her, so she didn't run. The old dancing girls, the ones who didn't meet the standards, she wasn't like them.

She didn't understand, but she helped. She said she would, anyway. Must've been lying. We have to act like they lie. They always lie, even when they don't. Because it isn't done, they're lying when they think they aren't. They lie. They lie. They lie.

But she had pretty soft hair, not too harsh. A strong body, but not too much on it. Bones there. I matched her motions later and if I remembered right they were gentle. And her eyes were real. They were beautiful, even narrow and knifelike. Living green like leaves, but also peaceful grey like stones, but also free blue like the sky, but also monster's brown like mine, like hers, like his. Common and uncommon eyes, that might betray and might not. I really want to like her.

They don't feed us enough. They probably never will. The food tastes disgusting, but they eat it and most of them haven't had to eat from the gutter and they're fine. So it can't be bad for me. I have to eat, or else I won't make it long enough to do it. And she was there. She really is the sunshine boy's sister. And she was so nice to that boy from farther out; she took him in on her own. The noble girl is a liar. We definitely can't trust her. She smells wrong and she won't help us. She doesn't like the rest of them, except she feels that pull in the gut for the sunshine boy. Shinji. We have to use names now, even if it's hard.

The classes weren't bad. Some of them are dangerous, but no one's good yet, so there's time to think and find the base level, the one they won't look at too hard. I'll be fine.

\--

Wood's day, Fumizuki. My name is Aizen Sousuke. I attend the Shinigami Academy now. I have no mother. I have no father. I will blend in and I will have no friends.

I can't get the girl out of my head. I see her, I hear her. She shouldn't be there. Oh gods, I can't get her out. The things they'd do to her in that hell. The things she'd do to them.

It isn't her fault she's so wonderful. The other shoe will drop soon, I know. But I need this goodness. I have to be allowed it before it crumbles. She won't get close. I can keep her away, I know it. She'll be useful.

She's smart. Not complacent like Shinji and the grey girl. Shinju. She's a pearl, feeding off others' irritation to be sure. Nariko-- that's her name, I remembered. Amazing. She isn't like she says, just 'hard-working.' She is! But she's thunder too. I can feel it around her. She can climb high, too. And humble. She was polite and blank the way people are when they have to protest your compliments and she believed it. All I said was that the sort of sword we need makes sense to her the way it doesn't to me, and she didn't get it.

She isn't perfect. Nariko isn't. She can't be. But that's all I see. She respects me. She was smart, saw that I can't get close. And she didn't poke it. Concerned about me.

People don't do that. She has to want something. I have to find out what it is. I have to act close so I can stay clear.

She almost

_(Here one and a half pages are ripped out)_

It's all her. All the brilliance. She sees what there is and makes it clear. Not like me, who's running a thousand things at once in my head. I have to follow her, or it'll all be lost. She'll lead me to the sword!

We're the same, but we're not. In a better world, we'd be the same. I'm going to make myself the same, like her. She understands that.

I really want this to go well.

* * *

 

She's got a game. I know she's got a game, 'cause she talked normal to me and then proper to her brother.

Wouldn't be bad to hitch my fate to hers, I think. Not too hard, so I can jump ship if she's disgraced or something. Seems smart enough, and definitely a noble too. Not outright cruel, so maybe it won't be awful.

I rolled over, reveling in the softness of the futon. It was probably shit to the nobles, but it was just the right balance of comfort and support for me. No roommate so far. Maybe he'd turn up, so I'd had to stick my stuff on my side, but there was so much space! No one on my back to go out and look for people whose eyes found weak points too easily and whose hands sparked blue occasionally. No one lurking to snatch my stuff the second sleep got too deep. Food. Maybe allies that could become friends.

The brother doesn't seem that bad. He definitely didn't trust me. Got common sense, not like his sister. Heard him asking her her game. We might get along, him and me. She'll be the ringleader, though. I can see it. She has that look of purpose like Mari did. She knows why she's here and it's for her own reasons. But she's not connected like Mari was.

I frowned and sat up, back twinging with aches from the last time I'd been connected. That might be a problem. People might've judged her as different, as dangerous. If they were right, I'd be in trouble, and street rats didn't have backup. If they were wrong, it might keep me down.

Eh. It was too early. The nobles would be sorting themselves out for a while. I'd make it temporary until I found a better deal. Besides, she went out of her way. That had to count for something. Not that it mattered if she wasn't in.

I studied my hands. The calluses were there, earned the way any decent person earned them. I'd have to make them write for me. They had the killing part down, but all this civilized stuff was going to be tough. But who the hell cared right now? I flopped back on the futon, grinning at the ceiling. It was all set.

* * *

Now, what the hell am I supposed to do with this kid? She sure ain't who she's supposed to be. I'm supposed to get a shy brat, or an arrogant brat, or a clueless brat. Not a little kid spouting things she shouldn't,  _can't_ know.

Shutara's cord unraveled, and I let the kid in and thanked whoever the hell you're supposed to thank when the condition for letting you deliver the things you put your soul into forging nearly unravels. How in the hell did she know? How was I supposed to find out?

 _You could just ask,_  Shutara scolded. I stifled a curse. Spent so much time with that woman she wouldn't even leave me alone here. But she was right.

I turned, snorting as she came up short with a squeak like a rat. "Well, girlie, how is it ya know my name? 'Cause I've got a friend and usually he's the only one who's that good at guessing." A bitch to play games with, too.

Her face went blank remarkably quick, but I could practically hear the gears turning. "You're strong. Captain-class. And you deal with asauchi. Zanpakutou are a special interest of mine." She shrugged in a way that was supposed to look like a casual badass, but looked hella nervous instead. "I do my research. 'God of the Sword,' Royal Guard member Nimaiya Ouetsu. That's you, right?"

That was a bald-faced lie, even if her reiatsu said she believed it. Ain't no library with my name in it. I ground the edge of the active fraction of my reiatsu against hers. See if she gave it up. "Man, I just can't believe what you're saying, girlie. I'm pretty sure I'm not in any of the books  _you're_ allowed access to."

She didn't spook, just went still and looked at me like her books held the contents of my head and what she read promised her safety. Old hazel eyes crinkled. "You don't spend much time in Soul Society, do you? I'm a Hirako. It's our business to know stuff people want hidden."

I snorted—no way in hell some brat not even a tenth of my age got a laugh. Especially when she laid out national secrets like the Soul King's Palace like hanafuda. "Can't argue with that. The last one of you I knew had his nose in everybody's business too. C'mere and we can get down to business. I don't bite. Much." And because it was not my damned job to fix Soul Society's eventual problems and that kid was so convinced I wasn't going to get anything that I wasn't, that was that.

She stepped forward like I was her old man, not going to lay a hand on her if the world fell down. Or any decent one, at any rate. A tiny storm sprung up at the edge of perception. Inferior in volume to mine, but not the impatient churning kids had at her age. Cute attempt at self-defense, I snarked. Then laid it aside to focus, to decide her future. 

As I set a hand on her soul sleep, above the heart, the mineral tang of rain filled my nose. Beneath it lay mist, reflecting sunlight and absorbing moonlight, a soft, harmless facade. Beneath the mist, summer storm waves reflected a sky split by screaming lightning. And beneath all of it, the foundation, slept the endlessly dark, chilling fury of the ocean. Too ready, for a kid. Too defined and purposeful. Brats not even past their first trimester might get annoyed by daddy cutting their stipend or less than perfect grades, but they didn't have anything to be furious over. For the nobles, they never had any fight in 'em yet, just the pissiness of youth. And Hirako never pretended to be anything soft.

I let my hand fall, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose like Hyousube did when he got sick of dealing with our shit. It'd give the brat airs. Besides, that weird-ass reiryoku made a weird-ass sword make a whole lot more sense. Someone's power had to make that asauchi sing its unique tone and it looked like I'd found whose.

"I was wondering who'd have that one," I muttered aloud so she wouldn't get the idea I was feeling her up.

A little color left her face. "What's wrong with my asauchi?" She asked, a little more reiatsu leaking out, pulsing like a rabbit's heart. There it was, a kid finally cracking like she ought to.

I grinned, basking in her worry. "Don't get your hakama all knotted. There's nothing wrong with it. I wonder that 'bout every one of my blades." Now, how to explain that to a should've-been-onmitsu Hirako, whose answers lookd to have run out. "Kinda like when you're brewing sake, and you wonder if your guests are gonna get the full experience out of it, taste all the notes, or just get drunk and spend the night throwing up. Up to them, not you, though."

Her chest didn't move, but bony shoulders came down from around the ears. "Oh. Okay."

"'Oh. Okay,'" I parroted back to her, trying to figure the best path to the asauchi. "That all you've got to say about the blade for your soul, girlie? If you're really a Zanpakutou nerd" - _and not some demon in a little girl's body-_ "you should know the potential in that asauchi!" _  
_

I caught her going red from the corner of my eye as I set course and headed off. At least some girl there, making feet shuffle along at a nervous distance behind me.

Tongues of ethereal saltwater spread behind me. Damn, I'd spoken too soon.

"A curious little birdie, aren't you, girlie?" I called back. A dangerous one, too. There was something in the girl that rang funny, a clear note like glass, or a hammer. "Peck-peck-pecking away at the asauchi." Damn, I wished I was in her head. Tell her she was quickening them and it might scare her off. Might give her ideas. Didn't tell her, I might need force. That was a power reserved for me or Hyousube, not a brat who hadn't even cut her teeth.

Whatever was in there, the stench of salt retreated, tinged with self-conscious warmth. What was with the headache Hirako always brought?

"Sorry. They- they're alive, but they're not... I wanted to know," she murmured. Oh, gods, not this. Not the pretentious genius who acted like they weren't hot shit. It was bad enough to have them messing with things, but when they got all fake-humble they deserved a kick in the teeth. Unless she was gullible enough to believe philosophers who waxed poetic about Zanpakutou, in which case she should get out before she took the whole thing at face value.

I rounded a corner, snapping my step just to hear her squeak at the sound of flapping cloth. "Don't be so apologetic, girlie! There's ambition in you, no matter how much you try and hide it. You'll get a hella weak Zanpakutou if you're all mixed-up like that. But still, don't be examining other asauchi. Gotta make sure they take to the people they're meant to, you know?"

"Yes, Nimaiya-sama," said that fake-weak voice. I snorted, just to let her know I saw through that shit. And then came to a halt deliberately abruptly. Because I could.

"Can you guess, girlie?" I asked, gesturing to the rack of swords mounted in front of us. "Which one's yours?"

She didn't even bother to look them over, just shrugged. "No," she answered, a little green in the face.

"Straight-forward and coy," I warned. "Better iron yourself out, girlie, or at least reconcile them both." I feathered the asauchi with my reiatsu, muting it so they wouldn't take it as a come-on and turn their noses up at their real wielders. Just needed enough sense to hear their unique tones sung back. There. I plucked it off the rack, resting it on my palms. Good manners and all.

"Well, what're you waiting for, girlie? You know what this is, don'tcha?" I demanded.

Adam's apple bobbing, she looked at the blade like it was going to cut her in two. Or worse, be the wrong one. Moron. I didn't make mistakes with my swords. Finally she offered up her palms, lined cream still and waiting. I smirked. Still hadn't gotten pretending to be nervous down. I eased it into her hands and watched the transformation. I'd seen it thousands of times, maybe hundreds of thousands. It never got old, the moment where their eyes flew clean open and the lips parted, like they were drinking in the new world. The moment where ordinary itchings vanished and the soul went still.

She recovered after a moment, bowing so deep I thought she'd tip over. "Thank you, Nimaiya-sama," she said, straightening. I could half-believe the smile now, a bright glowing thing.

 _Keep that smile,_ I thought at her, perfectly aware of the awkwardness, thank you.  _You're not going to be a normal Shinigami. Too much brains to be content, too much wild blood to accept the broader status quo. Trick 'em long enough and they'll ignore how freaky you are, what you are. It ain't the person you're supposed to be, I know that much. Whoever's looking at me's got a too-old soul, eyes that ain't seeing what they should, that flicker before you speak so the chatter in there makes sense out here. But they won't forget. Whatever mission you've got that heart set on, do it and get out._  I grinned at her to clear the air. "Wield it well, girlie."

She beamed back, big enough to split dusky gold cheeks. "I will, Toushin."

Heh. Hadn't been called that in a long time. I flapped a hand at her and set off for the registry. The second I'd gotten Hyousube's brush in my hand, I looked up at her. Damn, I hated when kids looked down at me. "Your name, girlie?"

The corners of her eyes tightened without touching the smile, just enough to say 'that's vaguely annoying but not enough to make a deal over it.' "Hirako Nariko," she said. "Written as 'flat child' and 'hard-working child.'"

I chuckled, remembering a smirking knife-eyed guy sprawling his lanky blond ass around the place and proclaiming his name was ironic, not stupid. "You didn't luck out, did ya, girlie? Okay, then. Let's get you back to the real world." I held the pattern her asauchi rang with in my head and pressed a dot on the paper by her name. If she did good, maybe someday there'd be another name there. I caught a flash of pink tongue as I stood, considered whacking her upside the head. But nah, memory said she'd get enough of that from whoever recognized her soul-tone.

We walked to the exit-entrance of the tent, steps scratching loud amidst the symphony of Zanpakutou on the edge of hearing. Reaching for the tent flaps, I stopped. Water took a jug's shape and even lightning could be caged. I couldn't just let her walk out there and fall right back into their clutches.

"Girlie?" I ventured, dropping the grin. "We won't be seeing each other again, so I'll give you a piece of advice: your teachers now, and your superiors if you make it into the Gotei 13" -and she would, if it took eating someone Hollow-style to do it- "they're gonna want a hard-hitting weapon outta you and they'll try and make you the sort of person who forms one.  _Don't_ let them succeed. I didn't invent Zanpakutou so a bunch of bureaucrats could create cookie-cutter soldiers with them. Be the kind of person whose soul shakes things up, yeah?"

Shutara's knot fell apart and we stepped out into the baking heat. "Next victim!" I called, watching the weirdest person I'd seen in a couple centuries jump. Maybe in a couple more centuries...


	2. War-Working

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me how you fight, and I will tell you what you are." The combat styles of Nariko's gang.

Shinju believes that the best way to fight is to not fight at all.

She has grown up never lifting a hand against someone. That's the way it should be, in a good world, but this isn't a good world. It's a cruel one, only held in check by law.

Instead, Shinju watches. Let the bodyguards watch the chest, where they can see strikes coming. Her eyes are on the hands and face. It's easy and proper for a lady, sitting demurely at Father's feet, to keep track of whose eyes tighten as their voice agrees to a deal. Once she had the good fortune to spot a lift in someone's eyebrows as Father made mention of a door conspicuously left ajar the morning after he passed over a rival for a contract. A whisper behind a silk fan, as the servant girl refilled the teacups, and Father's brow furrowed.

The rival never woke to find his door ajar, of course. Better to keep the devil close, now that they'd identified her.

At Shin'ou, the teachers claim you fight with hands and blades and spells. Father claimed court was a peaceful place, too, so Shinju sees through it. Just as much of the fighting the students will do is among themselves, for power and connections.

She doesn't pick sides quickly. The Fujikage aren't powerhouses. Instead, she sticks with her idiot roommate, who seems almost smart sometimes, and follows her lead. Or doesn't, when Nariko isn't around to see it. A careful complaint here, when classmates gripe about the stuck-up blonde girl who didn't even say thank you for a compliment, and a little laugh and denial when the Wakahisa prince looks at her sidelong and asks if she's cut from the same cloth as a wannabe rebel.

Alliances are forming, even now, and she'll be on the right side when they settle.

When Shinju has to fight, when there's no choice, she makes it clean and beautiful. Her clan doesn't have a signature Hakuda style, hasn't needed one since it discovered a few rare and beautiful dyes. So she trains with the sword, day after day, making it her most useful tool. It doesn't so much as whisper to her, but that's fine. Shiraishi teaches her how to kill in one strike, how to remove a threat and return her blade to its sheath clean. Someday, he promises, she'll learn to do it from seiza, the most elegant way.

Eliminating traitors is so ugly. Shinju hopes that 'someday' will be once she's out of this filth.

* * *

Minoru is a scrapper. Odds are, that will never change.

He can fake Hakuda if he has to. For exams, he does. His marks are great, second-best in that class. It's not because he's not quite good enough at the material, far from it. Minoru just lacks a certain touch, a performing touch. His kiai are breath-conserving huffs, not shouts, and his strikes are short and strong, not elegant. One class he gets in trouble for daring to go near the face during a takedown. He takes the laps with gritted teeth because it's not like they're being trained to kill people or anything, so why should they bother to show what they'll actually have to do in a fight? Morita's out of the 23rd South, he should know, but he's gotten soft in the years since, a show warrior more than a fighter.

His favorite techniques are the classics: a kick in the crotch and punch in the nose. There's something viciously satisfying about bringing a bruiser twice his size to his knees. Tears are just the icing on the cake. Mari cried just the same when he got her between the legs, so there's some sentimental value too. The punch in the nose, that's the nice option. Blood and tears and bruising, sure, but nobody dies. More shock than pain.

Minoru goes hard, not pretty, and that's entirely fine by him. He'll end a fight with bloody knuckles and a heaving chest. But he  _will_ end it. Unlike his classmates, it won't end him.

* * *

 Aizen is failing Hakuda. His classmates hate the burden he is on them. His teacher is missing clumps of hair from yanking on it in frustration, because his new student seems to have the spine and strength of a jellyfish. When he shows up for class, his sparring partners have to keep an eye on him to make sure that his strikes, if you can call them that, have actually hit them.

It is strange, then, that he has thick calluses on his hands and feet, thin scars crossing his knuckles where they've split.

Aizen is passing Kidou only by acing the theory tests. He has never hit a target—not his own, at any rate. His spells fizzle before they can leave his hands, or else they surge out of control and the nearest person has to squash them. There is now a student on Aizen-minding duty for that very purpose. He seems unable to even think about fire without flinching and coughing.

It is quite peculiar, then, that he stares fixedly, still as a corpse, at blazing lightning.

Aizen occupies a peculiar position in Zanjutsu. He is skilled at the drills, bokken swift and sure as it slices the air. But when it comes to sparring, the fire evaporates. He currently holds the record for most times disarmed in one class: eleven. Except that can hardly be counted when it's harder to tear wet rice paper than it is to knock the bokken from his hands. His instructor, Matsuoka, corners him one day to try to understand. She's a forgiving woman, eager to help her charges. Aizen explains that he's simply unsuited for conflict, in just those words. While she's sputtering about his choice of profession, Aizen melts away like snow on a spring day.

Matsuoka cannot reconcile his answer with his extreme vigor in drilling lunges.

Aizen is acing Houhou. His classmates dive through mazes, hemorrhaging spirit power in a crude attempt at flash-step, but Aizen is always cowering at the goal first. His mild blinks at their outraged faces don't help matters. His prowess can best be seen when Houhou Class 2B gets to play flash-tag as a treat. Or rather, it could be seen if anyone let him play. Somehow, Aizen is left standing at the sidelines, untagged the entire game. It's no fun to play when the best player is so good that he can't be caught or evaded. No fun to end up bruised from both, when he dodges just in time to slam you into a wall or tags so hard your shoulder aches for a week.

Were anyone but Aizen to know how long it took him to walk from Kuraizumi to Shin'ou, they would scratch their head at how he took twelve times as long as the average peasant to do so.

Aizen does not like to fight. It is one of his many idiosyncrasies that, with his power, potential stature, and experience being elbows-deep in gore, that he would be extremely good at it.

* * *

 

Shinji and Nariko are not the same person. Shinji can be—and has been, by uncharitable relatives—described as Nariko, gotten right on the second try. Where Nariko's toothy smile is wan, his is bold and bright as brass. When he stands in the sun, it seems to throw light back in your eyes just like that metal. Her hair is smoke, caught by ribbons. His is summer-blond in the midst of winter. He takes up as much space as a gangly gold boy can, all laughter and jokes and crinkled eyes; she shrinks back, hazel eyes wide and watching, until a question stops the conversation, then leaps in with an answer so quiet and inexplicable the topic changes.

To anyone who doesn't know the Hirako siblings, it makes no sense that they share a combat style. If you bring it up, they'll say something like this: "Well, I mean, they  _are_ Hirako. I suppose they have to learn the clan style. But still!" They will always drop the subject after the "but still!", as though no similarity ever existed between the pair.

What everyone forgets, even their parents, is that Shinji and Nariko share a vision for themselves. Oh, not a goal, not an endpoint. But they want to be, or have been molded to want to be, the same person. Shinji is to be the perfect Hirako heir—quick on his feet, quicker-witted, and with a tongue faster than both together. He looks like the archetypal Hirako. In a roundabout way, he feels like one, too, with the throwback sort of power that only Hirako genes could hope to roll the die for. He is the Hirako golden boy, and all he expects is that his shine will be buffed brighter every day.

Nariko is to be the perfect assistant—and that only after Honoka threatened to banish the people whispering about how convenient a poisoned needle left on the floor would be. Her choice words about the family business resulted in such a needle being left in her favorite kimono and dismissal from the elders' council, but the ash-haired toddler was allowed to keep playing at reading scrolls. Told since she was old enough to understand to keep an eye on the real heir, but never a word to take care of herself, all she wants is to prove she's worth the same. What better way to do that than become the perfect heir herself? If she can just learn more, strike harder, smile wider, she'll close the gulf that opened at Shinji's birth. If she can just be perfect, there'll never be any doubt they love her. Shinji can stay the heir, of course. Just as long as she's  _sure._

Shinji practices Shifting Moon because it's natural. Easy, even. No need to learn another style when the one he's got makes the ladies swoon. And if he's nice and quick, if his crescent kick hits that key joint and his elbow meets somewhere squishy, everyone can get back to adoring him. Not a scratch on the face, thanks. And when he learns all the techniques and Kenji's good and ready to step down, Shinji can take his place as the Shifting Moon Grandmaster and check that box off his 'ideal heir' list. And the accolades will come rolling in. Even Nari-nee will have to stop teasing him.

Nariko practices Shifting Moon because it's lethal. There's no flashy posturing like Akane's style. Shifting Moon stylists don't do exhibitions. There's no grappling like Himura does. You hit the enemy and they either stay down or you hit 'em again. She doesn't want to kill, just to be good. To be the best. And to survive. There's no immortality in this second chance at life, but Nariko will settle for escaping pain. She. Will. Live. And no one will doubt she was meant to.

Shifting Moon features three tenets. The first is the easiest: Hit first, hit hard, hit where it hurts. The Hirako don't need to fight unless they're caught somewhere they shouldn't be. Best down the enemy and get out before things get hairy. The second's marginally harder: Be unpredictable. Everyone's predictable, somehow. The Hirako get around it by not showing off. They don't perform, they usually don't send kids to Shin'ou, and they never teach it to outsiders. The rest comes from experience. It's a rite of passage, figuring out what no one will ever expect. The last one's the worst: Never get hit. Oh, it seems simple. But if it were, nobody'd ever die.

Nariko's best at the first. Killing instinct is easy when you want really badly to not die. Shinji's best at the last, in his fantastically lucky way. Or maybe he really is just that vain.

* * *

 

Nanase has always fought.

He isn't strong, not in the way most people mean. His Houhou is great, but his Bakudou needs work. Come to think of it, so does his Hakuda, his Zanjutsu, his straight-line Houhou... at least he's always succeeded in dodging what the enemy throws at him.

He never wanted to become a Shinigami. He just wanted to be someone else. Someone who wasn't called by the wrong name, treated like the wrong person, relegated to a life of lying one way or the other. Someone who didn't have to rely on others' pity just to fill an empty belly. He fought his bleeding feet, his fear of the end of the path, the echos of the people who said he'd never make it.

He fights every day. Every morning he wakes up before his roommate and reaches for the bandages, he fights. They won't look at him as someone he's not. He won't let them. He fights the instinctive flinch of his body when his friends give him a hug. They aren't the Takahashi people. He's earned their protection against the fury of the world. He fights the urge to give up, to let himself fall away like trash into the gutter. He isn't weak anymore. He's himself, and he will not stop fighting.

Nanase weaves spells. He knows the pattern, how to get the minimum amount of energy through a spell with the maximum punch. Focus here, crackle here, shell here, and bang- Soukatsui. Maybe he should've joined the Kidou Corps, but he can't be a recluse. He will live his life, world be damned.

Maybe it's not how nobles fight. Maybe it's not how Shinigami fight. Maybe no one else in this world fights the way he does.

Doesn't mean he can't keep trying.


	3. Sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makoto and Kenji, shortly after Shinji's birth, as they reflect on their other child.

"We don't need her," Makoto says, blunt as her name, cool as the night she and her husband stand under.

Shinji is asleep, bless his tiny heart. Despite her dread of more sleepless nights, Makoto's second child understands that his place is under the golden light of day. Come evening, his burbling and quests for freedom cease. She didn't have to suffer those with the first, but then Nariko put still-fading bags under her eyes. It almost evens out. Almost.

"Need's a strong word," Kenji replies, staring into the darkness as though it holds answers. A member of any clan would think so, at least. Kenji is a Hirako, and he watches for knives. The onmitsu of other clans would love to sabotage the future of the Hirako clan and take its place as chief Shihouin rumormongers. "We don't  _need_ many things, but they're nice ta have."

Makoto purses her lips. "Another mouth ta feed? Another dowry ta pay? If we can get anyone ta take 'er at all, the way she is. More favors t'ask, t'employ her. More questioning of the strength of our bond. I don't call that nice."

Kenji's sigh is almost lost in the breeze coming through the trees. For a long time, he doesn't answer. He's brought up these concerns before now, often to her, but her husband is softer-hearted than Makoto is. A native Hirako, with no chance of leaving the clan, of course he could afford to be.

"Ya see the stars, love?" he says at last.

Makoto looks up reflexively. Silver-blue points of light wink down at her, remote and alien. Useless things, washed out by the blaze of the full moon. She'd never understood, growing up in the pine forests her natal clan was named for, how people could love either. In the forests, they added nothing, gave the world no beauty. They cast deeper, shifting shadows to contrast with cold light. Her daughter had been born on a night like this. Makoto swore the light had gotten under the girl's skin that night, turned her strange and searching and chill. There was no other reason for her eyes to be wild hazel, for her hair to lack her parents' warm gold. No reason for a girl barely able to read to watch life go by from a corner, unsmiling and analytical.

"If you're about t'go on about it bein' fate that we had her first, don't," she warns. "Y'know I don't hold with any of that."

He huffs. "So harsh, love. Cuttin' me off before I could even begin." It doesn't dissuade him, of course. Kenji is too good a spymaster to not adapt. "Useless things, hmm? Small, not much light. Even the moon don't add nothin' much, 'cept a pretty excuse for a festival."

Makoto shifts, drawing her overcoat tighter around her. Damn the Hirako tendency to take your private thoughts and make them a centerpiece. "Where're ya goin' with this?"

Dogs bark in the distance, distantly reminding her to get the kennel's paint touched up. "Shinji, he's ta be great, yeah? A strong leader of the clan, canny, personable, a ladies' man even. A strong leader of the Shinigami, more power than those geezers can handle but plenty they can use fer Soul Society. Out there, public."

Makoto dips her chin. "Of course. He's a true son of the Hirako."

"Our daughter is a true Hirako also," Kenji reminds her. His honeyed voice darkens. "Unless ya lied ta me an' the rumor mill?" At Makoto's shake of the head, he continues, "Night don't add much ta most of life. But day ain't the time fer a lotta the business we handle. The stars, people can navigate by 'em if'n they know how. The moon can hide business or throw the spotlight on plots as it wants. They ain't fer the common folk, needin' learnin' an' subtlety as they do, but they're needed too."

Makoto purses her lips. "You're wantin' ta neuter Shinji. Deprive him of the full range of talents the clan head should have. All fer what, ta give the girl a consolation prize? Somethin' ta do with her days?"

Kenji leans on the engawa's railing. The moonlight streaks his hair with shadows, unable to touch its brassy shine, and deepens the circles under his eyes. "She's our daughter, Makoto. Have a little love."

"Have a little love?" Makoto bursts out, shedding her overcoat as she flushes. "I do love her! But we can't make decisions that affect the entire clan based on affection for an unpromising girl. If we sent her to the Gotei, even with that reiryoku of hers, she'd be overshadowed by her younger brother. Stayin' here, becomin' an onmitsu, she'd always be resentin' him. I want ta make the best choice fer everyone. A life where her legitimacy is never certain, not as a person nor as a clan functionary, it ain't a life at all." She should know.  For other clans, the deaths of her older sisters--so chance Makoto could never have arranged them--would've been a detriment. She would've been considered cursed. To the Hirako, to a clan connected to hers long ago by happenstance, it was fate. Her willingness to claw her way up the social ladder by her lacquered nails had only helped. To trust Nariko's fate to similar luck and ambition--it would be tempting fate.

Perhaps fate has already frowned upon her, saddling her with a child so hard to love. Perhaps Nariko knows it, too. The girl is so cautious, so hesitant, that she stiffens at a hug and peers around corners. She will win no friends here, barring a miracle.

Kenji is silent. Even he can't weave words honeyed enough to drip between the cracks of her thoughts.

"No objections?" Makoto asks. She can't put enough venom in the words to make it a challenge. "I woulda thought nothin' could squash yer hopes."

The wind drowns out his sigh. Her husband looks at her, at the woman who's shared his bed, his plots, his life, and then away. "My hopes won't die until this clan does," he answers at last. "An' without someone ta keep our son from fucking it all up, it might."

Makoto's forehead creases. Her mind leaps ahead, pulling together threads to find the image he's weaving, but the Hirako are rarely clear when they're truthful. "Whaddya mean?"

The drawl stains his words rough and dark now. "Haru. We don't present a good enough heir, there's a fair chance he'll challenge. Y'know I heard he's got just the one woman now? Reputable sort, fer out there. He could wiggle it around such that any brats they squeeze out have claim. Elders certainly don't like Nariko."

"The elders kicked him out, not Nariko," she notes. Ice sings in her veins nonetheless. "Ain't no way."

"'s always a way," Kenji says. "He'd tie us up long enough ta start underminin' us. Play our game, get rumors goin'. He left here in a right huff." He shakes his head. "I'd wager he'd like ta pay us back somehow. The Shihouin, they'd keep consolidatin' their power in the Second, makin' overtures ta the other clans' rumor-monger branches. Way they're goin', I'm worried. Way the world is goin', gettin' more peaceful-like, less backstabbin'." Kenji takes a deep breath, shuddering. She's never seen him this uncertain. "We need Shinji ta be our golden boy, Makoto. We need Nariko ta keep the dents off. Even if she won't last long, we need it. A little favor with the Shihouin, someone ta watch his back. We ain't got no choice."

The frame of the screen behind them squeaks. They go still.

A second, maybe two. Nothing but the moon and wind playing tricks, chilling them to the bone.

Makoto and Kenji return bed. For the rest of the night, they soak up each other's warmth and determination. They have made the hard choice, the right choice for the clan.

Though no other words are spoken, Nariko will live.


	4. A Mirror-World of Rubies and Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by chocolatcoffee, touched up by me.
> 
> Nariko and Aizen love long walks in the moonlight. Never mind that they leave bloody footprints in the ash behind them. (Near-future, Nariko moonlights as a vigilante AU... or is it?)

“So, sketchy or not? What do you think?” I threw out. Middle of the night. Potentially sketchy. Actually, almost certainly sketchy. But considering we were students halfway through our time at the Academy, most people would think we were up to teenaged shenanigans. Our friends already thought Aizen and I were up to teenaged shenanigans, no matter what we said.

“Abnormally sketchy, do you mean? I often find that the situation increases in sketchiness the more you're involved, Nariko-san,” Aizen replied, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“And you’re never sketchy?” I sighed. I tilted my head up to the sky, as if to appeal to the heavens to back me up. “Unfair.” It really was. Aizen, ever the ugly duckling, had blossomed with good looks. The things he pulled just didn't stick like they had back then.

“Some are born fortunate,” he said. Unspoken, singing in his cut-glass reiatsu, lay  _So_ _me people are born better_. I rolled my eyes at that far-reaching condescension, but for all its ugliness, it was genuine. Though I'd managed to coax a steady trickle of personality from him, a little more was always rewarding.

“I guess others need to work a little harder, then,” I joked. We were both kidding, both thinking of my name. He'd been thinking more of it though—'I’m fond of your name – it fits your ambition nicely,' he'd said. When he decided to cut the aloofness and flatter, he really laid it on thick. I knew that particular conversation had been a prime example, but I let it turn my sallow complexion to rose gold.

We were both silent for a time. The dirt had settled into a rhythm, crunching beneath our feet, the new moon above deepening the night, when Aizen came out with it. Took him long enough—slipping out his dorm window with me, flitting over Shin'ou's roofs and out of Seireitei entirely. He was too trusting of me, and I too trusting of him, and neither of us trusting each other all at once. '“I do wonder why you needed me.”

“Kidou is still so mystifying to me. I seem to remember you’re very good at it.” I didn't say _I suck at it,_  leaving the implication to hang in the air like old smoke, a habit from my court haunts. I was no Hinamori, but I'd gotten competent. “I need you to take care of a… mishap of mine. I removed a problem, but didn’t have time to wash my hands.”

We'd come to the outskirts of one of the districts close to Seireitei. A street studded not with residences, but secondary property lay before us. These were shacks and storage, places for workers who made their living elsewhere. Not a good place to hide something you wanted to stay hidden. It hadn't been for the problem I'd tracked here, and it wouldn't be one for me for long. Aizen followed me, a step out of reach, to a lot overrun with crabgrass and weeds. Trespassing—okay, so we were up to some shady shit. But criminals? Never.

When we entered the dwelling there, Aizen met, if I'd played my cards right, a surprise. He surveyed it, then smiled. The warmth didn't reach cool eyes.

“Is this an attempt to make me complicit in a crime? Or something more...enjoyable?” He gestured to the corpse on the floor. Hmm. It was a good thing I'd brought Aizen after all; the bloody belongings I'd initially wanted him to burn lay around a body that had only barely begun to dissolve. Funny, the problem had put up such a mediocre fight.

“He was an enemy of Soul Society,” I deflected. It was true. He'd opposed me, opposed the future, and I'd had to deliver justice where the law hadn't reached yet.

Aizen looked at me knowingly. If he had any doubts, they didn't show on his smooth, handsome face. He grabbed the body and dragged it outside to the back. As he set it afire with an unincanted Hadou, I vaguely contemplated how flame, this thing we both hated, now brought us together.

“I appreciate your confiding in me,” he said as heat built. The fire popped, spilling gentle light across his face like a macabre hearthfire. “As much as our friendship is clear in my head, confirmation is always so pleasant, don't you agree?”

At that unwanted affection surged in me. Friends we were, but none of my other friends, nor my family, had ever seen me mete out justice under the moon. Their paths stretched out in daylight, different but just as necessary. Aizen's and mine were set apart from theirs and even from each others, starting from the same place but leading to such different ends. I didn't believe in luck, but here I'd created a chance to keep our roads nearer, to keep him in sight, for a bit longer.

“You’re the only person I could ever share any of my secrets with,” I said, and wasn’t that a truth that shook the smiling mask.


	5. Kitsunebi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The founding of the Hirako clan, in the time before time.

This is how the story goes: Shihouin Tsuku—recent generations call her Tsuki, updating the name to its modern form—hears of a festival greater than any other. Once a month, in the dark of the moon, the night is filled with lanterns and laughter, where sake flows like water. Tsuku-Tsuki is a young woman, not yet settled, and she goes out to one of these festivals to dance under the stars. When she arrives, she sees a palace of tents. Gold drips from the throats and wrists of every festivalgoer; the finest silk and jewels sparkle throughout. Some elders say Tsuku-Tsuki didn't wish to turn back, and so she ignored the strangeness of the finery amidst the forest. More cynical elders say she was filled with the foolishness of youth, and didn't see the festival for what it was. Those with more faith in the Shihouin—this is the version told outside the clan—say that despite her youth, Tsuku-Tsuki was strong, and saw the danger, but feared it not.

This is how the story continues: Tsuku-Tsuki enters the festival. She dances amidst lanterns and starlight to a song of haunting beauty, and sings a few herself. As she rests, becoming thirsty, a man approaches. He has golden hair and shows too many teeth when he smiles, but his eyes are laughing and his tongue is quick. (All the elders insist that he was simply witty, especially to the children.) Together they drink a bottle of the finest sake, gold as his hair, gold as lanternlight.

This is where the story splits: in the less-publicized version, Tsuku-Tsuki beds the golden stranger and returns to the Shihouin stronghold. Nine months later, she gives birth to a child of unspecified gender. Even so young, its eyes are laughing and wisps of gold cover its scalp. But as she holds the child, it burbles, revealing tiny white teeth no newborn has. (In the better-known version, Tsuku-Tsuki weds the golden stranger and returns home with him. He is a strange husband, doting, yet fearful of mirrors and dogs, who consumes only tofu and aburage at feasts. The birth is much the same, but the child is a boy.)

This is where the story is the same again: A golden fox appears at her bedside. In her lover's voice, it says, "O lady of darkest midnight, bold and swift are you, and great and noble is your clan. In antiquity did your ancestors lie with nekomata and thereby gain blessings. Though the time draws near for we who dance outside the white city to join the shadows of myth, one last gift do my people give to you, that some part of us may continue on and the humans we favor grow great. A clever tongue will our child have, and luck like a fox's, and ears that capture every hidden word. Yet ever will humanity seek to hunt and trap our descendants."

And this is how the story ends: Tsuku-Tsuki is filled with wrath and leaps up from her bed, killing the fox and making his pelt into the Shihouin Imperial Soldier Armaments. Seeing the fox's generosity, she spares his child and raises him as an onmitsu without peer.

This is the story of the first Hirako, Minoru, and of his clan.


	6. The Daemon AU No One Asked For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self-explanatory title.

No one was surprised when Shinji's daemon settled. Nariko was a good enough companion, quiet and helpful, but it was widely agreed that Shinji needed a partner in crime who actually wanted to be there. That his daemon had opposable thumbs, removing his incentive to bug her, was a perk. There had to be some, after all, to make up for the fact that Alba saw the world as her own personal jungle gym. She never committed the taboo of touching other humans, but that was small comfort when the small primate had tried to climb and subsequently toppled your mahogany bookshelf.

At Shin'ou, Shinji charmed most people into thinking the best of Alba. It was too easy—as Nariko had warned him—to assume that his daemon's deft hands would end up in others' pockets. Alba chattered furiously at that, but it was the truth. Monkeys had no wings or claws or scales to recommend them, so what other strength could they have?

Shinji always rolled his eyes at that. It was his job to become the best damn leader the Hirako'd ever seen, not give himself grey hairs worrying about other people's ideas of daemonic 'usefulness.' Daemons were your soul, not some tool to use, no matter what Shin'ou said.

He still delighted in the pranks he and Alba pulled off. How could he not? No way could a dog like his father's have dumped a bucket of paint on the head of his Hakuda teacher.

**Shinji's Daemon**

**Species:** Golden snub-nosed monkey ( _Rhinopithecus roxellana_ )

 **Name:** Alba (dawn)

-

**Kenji's Daemon**

**Species:** Japanese spitz ( _Canis lupus familiaris_ )

 **Name:** Aimi (beautiful love)

* * *

 

Minoru's daemon settled at Shin'ou, and only after some reluctance. It was hard to shake the idea that you needed maximum flexibility to be safe, as he had in the Rukongai. Still, the confidence it gave Tesha was undeniable.

He was glad she hadn't chosen a dog's form. Small and scrappy himself, it was tough enough to avoid the stereotype of the 'Rukongai dog.' Besides, she'd been a dog many times, protecting him from the latest brigand. He was even more thankful she hadn't picked a rat—there'd been a week where she'd stayed as a black rat, after which he'd made her promise never to become one again. Then again, he hadn't wanted her to be a cat initially, but she'd shown him the error of his ways.

Most people mistook Tesha for a domestic cat, if a large one. Her markings didn't help there, being dotted streaks that resembled a garden-variety tabby. That suited Minoru just fine. He and Tesha were adaptable enough to pass and gain approval, with wild spirits that served them well in a fight.

It certainly helped to know how to fish.

**Minoru's Daemon**

**Species:** Chinese leopard cat ( _Prionailurus bengalensis_ )

 **Name:** Tesha (happiness, survivor)

* * *

 

Hiyori almost broke Nariko's nose when she first met her, out of sheer frustration. She was this close to her daemon settling, then Nariko had to go to Shin'ou and throw everything out of whack! What a bitch!

Nariko wasn't that hateable, though, so Hiyori subsided into the rhythm of her cousin's life and settled for kicking her in the shins every so often. Sometimes she and Connor would team up, winding up to kick Nariko to make her jump back and trip over the daemon waiting in a small and stubborn form. That always made them laugh themselves sick, but it didn't make Hiyori feel much better when he shifted to a parrot to mimic the sound.

Of course he settled in Kinsawa. He would decide what they're about in the middle of a fucking warzone, forever marking her soul with that memory. But as she panted beneath his weight, as Nariko gasped beneath hers, thrown around like a set of dolls by Mari, she decided it wasn't the worst thing. Her soul was a protector's, and she'd kicked enough ass to redeem the whole thing.

She totally couldn't call Nariko a bitch now, though. That'd just be asking for a smart-ass retort.

**Hiyori's Daemon**

**Species:** Hokkaidou dog ( _Canis lupus familiaris_ )

 **Name:** Connor (strong-willed hound-lover)

* * *

Aizen's daemon hasn't settled. That's fine, Nariko reassured him. Plenty of people, especially in long-lived Soul Society, took a while. He told her he didn't need the comfort, that Barb's utility was far greater this way. She didn't believe it. Nariko knew names, and she knew what Barb was short for and what it meant. She didn't know that when Barb squawked and barked and chirped, it was as unintelligible to him as to her.

Aizen chalked it up to obstinacy and the trauma of their past. She'd talk when she was ready. Her shifting was plenty communicative anyway: snake for rage, dog for fear, so on and so forth, though the species usually changed at a whim. The only consistent form was a crow for joy.

The shifting was reassuring, in a way. Barb wouldn't become a crow, he knew. He could only hope she wasn't a snake.

**Aizen's Daemon**

**Species:** Unsettled

 **Name:** Barb, nickname for Barbara (distant and strange)

* * *

 

The Hirako were a strictly mammalian clan. Warm, fuzzy, and toothy was how they liked it. It never mattered that crows were the most clever bird out there, nor that Vesper's preening was as gentle as they came. All they saw was the omen of death and youkai.

They'd clearly never seen a crow play, not that Vesper let them see when he did it. A crow rolling down a snowy bank was the funniest thing in the world, hands-down. Even Shinji'd concluded that. Not that it made it much better when they looked down their noses at her daemon, but it was a great mental image afterwards when she needed a laugh.

Fine. Let their daemons complain on the ground while Vesper took to the air. It only meant more information, earlier, for Nariko.

She wouldn't tell them it also meant awesome staring-down game while he sat on her shoulder. Dignity was a fragile thing.

**Nariko's Daemon**

**Species:** American crow ( _Corvus brachyrhynchos_ )

 **Name:** Vesper (evening star)


End file.
